


A Christmas Carol

by dancingloki



Series: Here We Come A-Wassailing [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingloki/pseuds/dancingloki
Summary: Two years after bringing Bucky home, Natasha, Sam, and Clint are once again faced with a difficult challenge. Steve and Bucky's relationship is on the rocks, and Natasha thinks Bucky's getting ready to disappear again--what's worse, she feels responsible. It's going to take another Christmas miracle for them to convince Bucky to stay.





	1. Meeting Ebenezer

**Author's Note:**

> sooooooooooo, we're doin' this again

Sam grimaced, stretching, as he headed back into his kitchen. Bending down, he grabbed the orange juice from the bottom shelf of his refrigerator, and took a pull right from the jug as he straightened up.

“Not very hygienic,” came a voice right behind him. Sam choked.

After spluttering and coughing for a moment or two, he caught his breath and turned around. Natasha was leaning against the counter, smirking.

“You know something,” he told her hoarsely, “you’d think after almost three years, I’d stop being startled by finding you lurking in my house.”

She rolled her eyes and strode over to the table,  flopping down heavily into a chair. “How’d it go? Did you get him talking?”

Sam shook his head solemnly. “First off, he ran me ragged. Then he was starting to loosen up by the time we were done with our run—I was even thinking about suggesting breakfast—but the minute I mentioned Bucky…”

“Damn, I really thought he’d listen to you. Well, more than he listens to anybody else, anyway.”

“I tried, believe me. I figured if I played it cool, y’know, asking how your best friend’s boyfriend is doing is just normal adult conversation, act like I didn’t mean anything by it. But I swear, first word out of my mouth and you could _see_ him closing down.”

Natasha pursed her lips, pensive. “I’ve been thinking…” she trailed off, tapping her lower lip with one finger.

“Oh no, you don’t. I know that look.”

“What look?” she asked innocently.

Sam folded his arms over his chest. “The look of I’m about to get put through a world of hassle, headaches and high blood pressure.”

“Don’t be a scrooge, Samuel.”

“ _No_ ,” he told her firmly. “We are _not_ getting involved in this. We did our due diligence as their friends, we tried to talk to them about it, and they weren’t having it. They are grown men and they will deal with their relationship problems themselves.”

“No, they won’t,” she insisted. “Sam, you know they won’t. Steve especially. He is allergic to any problem he can’t punch, you know that better than anyone.”

“Just because he won’t talk to us doesn’t mean he won’t talk to Bucky,” Sam argued, but his heart wasn’t in it; and Natasha’s flat stare said he wasn’t convincing her any more than he was convincing himself. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. Look, you can’t be someone’s friend and his therapist at the same time, okay? You’re a smart person. You know that. It is _not our job_ to fix this for them.”

“Well. That’s certainly one perspective.”

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Why do I bother,” he said under his breath. “Why do I bother pretending like I have any say in what happens in my life?”

He walked slowly around the room and sat down in the chair directly across from hers, folding his hands very deliberately on the table and leaning forward on his elbows to meet Natasha’s gaze evenly.

“Suppose I asked you what the other perspective was,” Sam asked finally.

Subdued as she always was, Natasha made no attempt to hide the smug smile playing around her lips. She leaned forward, mirroring Sam’s pose. “Suppose I told you that since we were the ones who brought Bucky home in the first place, we are morally responsible for the results of that decision?”

“I’d say that’s bull,” Sam told her frankly. Her smile vanished instantly. “Nat, a person is responsible for their own choices, but not for anybody else’s. We made the choice to go after Bucky—okay. But it’s been two years. If he and Steve are having problems with their relationship now, it’s due to the choices they’ve made in the meantime. It’s not on us.”

Natasha was frowning at the table, her arms tucked in to her chest. Sam waited patiently while she wrestled with herself. Finally, she looked back up into his face.

“Do you remember the night we saw _Swan Lake_?”

“Sure.”

“And you remember what I told you afterwards?”

Sam nodded silently.

She looked around the room, staring at the ceiling, out the window, looking anywhere but him. He sat patiently, still waiting her out.

At length she blurted out, “Sam, I screwed up. I messed up bad, and I want you to help me fix it.”

“Put it like that and of course I’m on board, but I’m gonna need more details. Work with me here.”

Nat pursed her lips resentfully, digging at the linoleum with a toe. “I should have—I got complacent, okay? Steve was there for him, and they were all cuddly and cute, and I thought…I thought it would be fine. I thought it would work itself out. But Bucky is not okay. You get that, right, Sam? He is _not okay_.”

“Believe it or not, I did pick up on that,” Sam cut in.

Flashing him a brief smile, she went on. “Steve being Steve, he knows something’s up, but he’s going to do what he does best and pretend nothing is wrong until it blows up in his pretty face. Neither of them is _dealing with it_.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to say—he knew she was right about Steve and Bucky, but he still wasn’t convinced that Natasha was right to blame herself, or that it was right for them to get involved.

Fortunately, she wasn’t inclined to wait for his opinion. “I told you that night that I was probably the only person on Earth who understood what Bucky was going through. It was true then and it’s still true now, and if I’d intervened sooner, things would never have gotten to this point. It was stupid of me; even after all my big talk, all my cynicism, I still wanted to believe that love could just—fix someone, who’s been damaged the way I—the way people like us get damaged. I guess I’m a good enough liar that I could even fool myself for a while.”

She took a deep breath. “Bucky’s leaving. When he came in, I promised him he could go whenever he wanted, and I meant it. But promise or no promise, leaving is a damn stupid thing for him to do. I want to do what I _should_ have done two years ago, and show him that. But I need your help. He’s ghosting as soon as he works up the nerve.”

“Ghosting?” Sam felt a heavy knot forming in his stomach. “He’d really do that? Just…vanish? That would _destroy_ Steve, he’s got to know that.”

“He’s convinced himself that he’s not worth redeeming. That Steve will be heartbroken, but in the long run, better off without him. I’m not sure how much time we have, but it’s not much, and it’ll be a lot _less_ the minute we engage him. If he thinks there’s a chance I’d break my word, he’ll be gone before you can blink.”

“We are _not_ keeping him here against his will,” Sam insisted. “I won’t go that far and I won’t let you either—not ‘for his own good’ or any other reason.”

Natasha flashed him a glare that could have peeled paint. “You really believe that of me?” she demanded.

Sam paused, seriously considering it. “No,” he answered finally. “No, I don’t. But things get out of hand sometimes, so I thought we should be clear where the line is drawn.”

Huffing slightly through her nose, she went on archly, “It doesn’t matter whether we’d actually do it or not. Bucky’s not a gambler, he won’t wait around weighing options. He believes there’s even a small chance, and he won’t take the risk.”

Sighing, she settled back into her chair. The late morning sun streamed through the window, motes of dust dancing in its path; Natasha watched them, looking somehow older than Sam had ever seen her.

When she spoke again, it was quiet and subdued enough that Sam almost missed it. “I don’t need to tell you that this won’t be easy. I don’t usually take on lost causes—I only like to play games that are rigged in _my_ favor. If I had just…” she trailed off, shaking her head and refocusing. “But we have one huge advantage that gives us a shot at pulling him back.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Bucky doesn’t actually want to go,” she said simply, spreading her hands wide to accentuate her point. “He loves Steve, he _likes_ being safe, having a home, a life, everything. Being on the run is…unpleasant. It’s not a nice way to live. Like I said, he’s only going because he’s decided that he’s toxic, that he’s going to poison or corrupt Steve, blah blah self-serving martyrdom nonsense. If we come in with a solid argument _against_ that idea, if it’s persuasive enough and makes sense to him, he’ll _want_ to believe it. He’s not actively looking for a reason to stay, but if one gets thrown in his face, he’ll probably latch onto it. Probably.”

“If it’s convincing enough to cut through the self-loathing.”

“Exactly.”

“So we’ve just got to convince a severely depressed and traumatized ex-brainwashed-assassin that he is actually worthy of being loved.” Sam leaned back in his chair and rubbed one hand over his face. “Sure. _No_ problem. Do you ever get nostalgic for when we were just going on scavenger hunts to _find_ the dude, instead of trying to put his brain back together with duct tape?”

“Aww, c’mon, Sam, it won’t be that bad,” Clint said from behind him.

Sam jumped almost five feet in the air, nearly falling on his ass when he came back down. From  across the table, Natasha snickered. “How long have you been in here?” he yelped.

“I dunno, Nat, when did we get here? Around nine maybe? You’re out of granola bars, by the way.”

“Quit eatin’ my food, damn it!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint flopped down into a chair at the table, lounging. “Look at it this way: we’ll be like Santa’s Helpers! And this time, you can’t even complain about it not being Christmas anymore.”

With a resigned sigh, Sam got up from the table, heading back towards the bedroom. Nat and Clint traded an uncertain glance before getting up to follow him.

“You’re not bailing on us, are you?” Clint asked anxiously.

“C’mon, man, what do you take me for?” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “We gotta make a plan to handle this, and I’m not doing that all sweaty and sticky in my workout clothes. I’m gonna shower and change; you two get out of my hair, I’ll be back out when I’m done. And stay out of my kitchen cabinets.”

“It’s adorable, that he thinks that would stop me,” Clint muttered to Natasha under his breath as they headed back down the hallway.


	2. The Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES i am running behind SO SUE ME

Dawn glittered and glistened off the snow-encrusted lawn, sparkling and shining through the crisp December air.

“Okay,” Sam said, patting at his pockets absently. “Does everyone know what they’re doing?”

“In general, or in the plan?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

After a moment, he asked slowly, “Clint, is that a quote from something?”

Clint shrugged.

“Because it sounds like a quote from something.”

“Just answer the question,” Natasha interrupted.

“…the plan, Clint,” Sam finally said, still staring at Clint suspiciously.

“Oh, good,” Clint said feelingly. Sam stared at him for a while, then shook his head and moved on.

“So. Clint, you have everything you need?”

“Yep.” Clint flipped off the couch, sticking the landing neatly. “It’s all set up. You?”

“Ready to go. My sister’s not thrilled, but my mom is looking forward to it. Nat, is plan C set up?”

“Not entirely, but I’ve still got a couple of days, unless you two screw up your parts worse than I planned for.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Sam said drily. “Am I on Steve duty today, or are you?”

“You, obviously, I just said I’ve still got final preparations to make.”

“Yeah, Sam, keep up,” Clint chuckled in the background.

“Fine, fine. I’ll…I’ll drag him to the farmer’s market on 14th street, he keeps threatening to learn how to cook.” Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket, wandering out of the room as he talked. Clint eavesdropped casually as he fiddled with his quiver. Finally, Sam hung up the phone, pulling a face as he came back to the couch.

“He’s on the hook,” he announced. “I made sure he’d come alone by suggesting he bring Bucky with him, which is its own kind of depressing. We’re meeting at ten this morning, so he’ll probably leave their place around what, nine?”

“Then I’ll be at the door at 9:05,” Clint said cheerfully.

In reality, it was closer to 9:30 before Steve headed out of his and Bucky’s apartment. Clint could hear the tail end of a muffled argument; from his vantage point, he caught a glimpse of Steve’s face as he passed by in the hallway. Steve’s jaw was tight, and a redness in his eyes suggested he’d been crying.

Clint shook it off—Steve was Sam’s problem today—and made a beeline for the front door. Bucky opened it on the first knock, a desperate, heartbreaking hope in his eyes that vanished into a scowl the instant he saw Clint.

“Hiya,” Clint said cheerfully.

“What do you want,” Bucky demanded.

“Wanna introduce you to an old friend of mine.”

Bucky slammed the door in his face.

Clint counted to three, then knocked again.

Bucky opened the door, growled, “go _away_ ,” and shut it again.

Clint counted to five, and knocked a third time.

This time, when Bucky hauled the door open, he just stood there, glaring at Clint, who beamed back at him.

“So,” he asked brightly, “you ready to go?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and turned his back, heading into the apartment. Clint followed, slinging his quiver over his shoulder. Bucky glared at him, hair falling down in his eyes as he stomped towards the kitchen.

As Bucky slammed pots and pans into the sink, Clint hopped up onto a kitchen chair, perching on the back.

“Wow, that’s quite the mess,” he grinned. “What’d you make?”

Bucky rumbled something under his breath. Clint sighed and jumped back down, coming over next to him and slinging an arm over his shoulder.

“Look, pal. We can stay here, and I’m just going to get more and more annoying. Or, you can come along with me and hear me out.”

Placing both palms flat on the counter and closing his eyes, Bucky took a deep, slow breath in, exhaling in one quick puff of air. Without looking back, he asked, “Come along where?”

“First, the airport. I got a quinjet waiting.”

Bucky looked up at the ceiling, tense, before his shoulders slumped in surrender. Clint hugged him gently and then headed for the door; resigned, Bucky followed him.

The gloom radiating from Bucky’s silent form filled the cab of the Challenger. Clint didn’t try to make conversation as he clumsily made his way through traffic to the airport. The promised quinjet was indeed waiting out on the tarmac; the security personnel stared openly at Bucky, but made no move to stop them. For his part, Clint acted like they weren’t there, breezing effortlessly through the pre-flight checklist.

Bucky’s stubborn silence lasted through the hour-and-a-half flight. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at his feet. Clint was deeply relieved when they finally reached their destination; he maneuvered the quinjet smoothly down to land in an open field, thigh-deep in a blanket of pristine snow.

“Where the hell is this?” Bucky demanded, still scowling, as he followed Clint down the ramp.

“Welcome to the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders,” came the answer, with a dramatic sweep of one arm. “It looked better in its heyday.”

If Bucky found that hard to believe, he kept it to himself. Certainly it would have been hard for the traveling circus to have ever looked worse; the snow-covered tents were shabby, the wagons ramshackle, their colors faded and their paint peeling. An old man came hobbling out of a trailer home parked on the far end of the lot, waving eagerly. Clint waved back, and he and Bucky jogged across the field to meet him.

“Clinton, my boy, what a pleasure, what a real pleasure,” the old man wheezed, thumping Clint hard on the back. “I have to say, I was surprised to hear from you after all these years—I’ve seen you on the news, you know. Couldn’t be prouder. But I would have thought you’d be too good for us now! Wouldn’t think you’d want your new friends to see you rubbing shoulders with an old carnie like me!”

“Aww, c’mon,” Clint protested. “The Avengers aren’t stuck-up like that. And I owe you a lot. Look, I want you to meet somebody—this is a pal of mine, Bucky Barnes. Buck, this is Mr. Hank Carson.”

“Sure, sure,” Carson said, grabbing Bucky’s hand in a deceptively strong grip, and pumping it up and down as he spoke. “Seen you on the news too, fella. Got yourself in quite a bit of trouble, didn’t you! Well, we don’t mind that around here. Why don’t you boys come on in and sit a spell.”

“Mr. Carson used to own this place,” Clint explained to Bucky, who followed him apprehensively inside. “Gave me and my brother Barney jobs when we were still just kids.”

“I gave the business to my daughter, Marcella, when I got too old to really run it anymore,” the old man called over his shoulder as he rummaged in a low cabinet, emerging with three glasses. He thumped them down on a beaten old table, turning around to search through a pile of rubbish on a nearby couch.

Emerging triumphantly with a mostly-full bottle of liquor, he poured out a generous serving in each of the glasses and slid two of them across the table, downing half of the third in one long swig. Clint grabbed his eagerly, flopping down into the closest chair with a grin. Bucky sat down near him, taking the last glass and examining it dubiously.

Carson had already drained his glass and was pouring out another. “Marcy kept the place going for a while, did her best with it, but we had some troubles with this gangster type, and the truth is the traveling circus is dying out. People just don’t want to come anymore, plain and simple; even the places that didn’t run us out of town, the crowds that showed up were smaller and smaller. She did her best, but she just couldn’t keep it alive. It ain’t gonna bite you, son,” he told Bucky, pointing at the glass in his hand.

“I dunno, it might,” Clint chimed in, holding his out for a refresher. “What is this stuff, paint thinner?” Bucky sniffed it dubiously and took a sip as Carson cackled.

“So when she packed it in, I bought this lot on the cheap, we parked everything here, and here it’s been ever since. Marcy moved out west and got some management job—she’s doing well.” He sighed and refilled his glass. “Well, anyway. You didn’t come here to listen to an old man ramble about the past.”

“Actually, that’s exactly why we’re here,” Clint said. “Do you still keep those old scrapbooks? From back in the day?”

Carson’s face lit up. “Sure I do! Hold on a minute, let me get ‘em for ya.”

Clint winked at Bucky as Carson heaved himself up from the table, tottering over to the rear of the trailer. Setting his glass firmly down on the table, Bucky leaned over, hissing, “Explain.”

“What?” Clint shrugged, widening his eyes innocently. When Bucky’s scowl just darkened, he sighed, pushing the glass back towards his hand. “Relax, will ya? It’ll make sense by the time we go back, I promise.”

Bucky snorted, but he took the glass and emptied it in one smooth gulp. Carson guffawed as he dropped several heavy books onto the table next to them.

“Lookee here! Get a load’a this fella!” Bucky held the glass out and Carson refilled it, laughing as some of the amber liquid sloshed out and splashed on the ground. He sat down unsteadily, shifting the books around on the table.

Pulling the closest scrapbook towards him, Clint flipped it open, thumbing through the pages. “Hey, this is from ’83, right? God, look at that haircut!”

Carson leaned over, nearly knocking the bottle over; Bucky grabbed it just in time to stop it from tipping. “Yeah, that’s right, that was your first winter with the the Carnival.”

He nudged Bucky, who was leaning over his shoulder curiously, with his elbow. “That’s me, in the middle of the front row there, and that’s my brother Barney right to my left.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen. Barney was fifteen. We’d run away from foster care early that year, and Mr. Carson took us in, gave us work. Hey, boss, there you are in the back row, right there.”

“Back when I had all my hair,” the old man snorted.

Bucky watched as they went back and forth, nosing through the books, reminiscing about old memories. In addition to the yearly group pictures—old members vanishing and new ones appearing, those which stayed aging visibly each year—there were newspaper clippings, candid shots from behind the scenes, pictures taken during the shows themselves. Clint spent extra time dwelling on the mementos from each year’s Christmas. The carnies had decorated the wagons with electric lights, run tinsel up the sides of the bleacher risers; if there was a convenient tree wherever they had stopped for a show, they decorated that as well.

By the time they got through the last of the scrapbooks, the sun was going down and the bottle was empty. Carson was unsteady in his chair, face flushed, tunelessly singing some old working song. Clint helped him back into bed, yanking his shoes off and tucking him under the covers; Bucky could hear the old guy snoring by the time they reached the door.

He stayed silent all the way back to the quinjet; not the sullen resentment he’d been clinging to on the way there, but a still, sad thoughtfulness that was somehow far more worrying, a stifling hush Clint couldn’t bring himself to break. About halfway back, Bucky finally did so himself.

“You promised this would make sense by the time we left,” he said quietly.

Clint nodded. “Barney and I were with Carson Carnival for eight years. When I was twenty-one, three years after Marcy took over, I walked in on the Swordsman, the man who taught me to shoot a bow, who taught me damn near everything I knew, counting the money he’d embezzled from the show. I tried to stop him. He beat the crap out of me; I was in the hospital for two weeks, broken ribs, internal bleeding, whole nine. Found out later that he’d been using the carnival as a recruiting ground for some criminal thing he was putting together, turning roustabouts into thugs.”

“Your mentor betrayed you.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t the worst of it.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows; Clint sighed and explained.

“Before he beat me up, he tried to buy me off first. Offered me a cut of the money he’d stolen and a place in his crew.  When I told my brother what had happened, he called me an idiot, said I should have taken the cash. I swear to god, he was more pissed at me than he was at Swordsman. I couldn’t believe it. We had this big fight…well. Couple months after I got out of the hospital, I ended up tangling with some of Swordsman’s crew. Had to put one of their guys down hard. His—his hood came down, and…”

“And it was your brother.”

Clint nodded. “He went to work for the man who almost killed me.”

They sat in silence the rest of the flight, finally coming in low over the lights of the city shining in the darkness. Clint landed expertly at the same airport they’d taken off from, powering down the quinjet and fussing with his straps. He was heading for the ramp when he suddenly realized that Bucky was still in his seat, as silent and motionless as a stone.

In the dim cockpit, lit only by the floodlights and runway lights from outside, Bucky’s face looked mournful and ghostly. Clint came back to his seat, waiting for Bucky to return from wherever his mind had drifted.

“What did you do then?” he asked finally, looking up at Clint for the first time since they’d taken off.

Clint shrugged. “What could I do? Barney was fine, but it fucked me up, man. I was a wreck for years afterwards, got myself in all kinds of trouble. If Fury hadn’t seen something in me…without S.H.I.E.L.D., I don’t know where I would have ended up. Nowhere good, that’s for sure.”

“Tell me you have a point.”

Rolling his eyes, Clint kicked him lightly with one toe. “My point _is_ , you can’t let the past control you. I can go back there, I can get drunk with Mr. Carson, walk around those tents, and it doesn’t fuck me up anymore.”

“Good for you,” Bucky muttered under his breath. Clint snorted.

“Look. The past is the past, man. You can’t change it. You ever seen _The Lion King_?” Bucky just glared; Clint tried to imitate Rafiki’s voice. “The past can hurt, but you can either run from it—or learn from it. Taking off now won’t change what happened. You can run from Steve, but you can’t run from what Hydra did to you.”

“I’m not trying to,” Bucky said quietly. “And I’m not asking you to understand. I can’t come back, Clint. There’s a threshold, that once you cross it, there’s not enough of you left to put back together. The best I can hope for is not to drag Steve down with me.”

“But—you—That’s not the—” Clint sputtered, but Bucky was already on his feet, trudging back down the ramp onto the tarmac. Clint followed him as he headed towards the exit away from the car, saying desperately, “c’mon, bud, at least let me give you a ride home.”

Bucky shook his head. “I have some things to do.”

“Won’t Steve be worried? What are you gonna say when he asks you where you were?”

“He won’t ask,” Bucky called over his shoulder. “He’s afraid I’ll tell him.”

Shadows swallowed him up, and he disappeared into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: it literally just occurred to me that this was not made clear: Clint did not actually get drunk. He had maybe one or two drinks and they were there for many hours. He was completely sober when he flew them home.


	3. The Ghosts of Christmas Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was kind of hard for me to write due to some Family Issues of my very own which is why it took so long to post sorry about that I guess

“This is a bad idea,” Bucky growled.

“Look,” Sam said firmly, “my mom’s been on my case about meeting you for months. And you and I need to have a talk about things, so I figured, two birds, one stone.”

They were walking side-by-side up the sidewalk to Sam’s mother’s house on Christmas Eve day. Sam had finagled Bucky into a delightfully hideous Christmas sweater, at which he was fitfully pulling, his metal hand threatening to unravel the hem.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Bucky was scowling; Sam shot him a sideways look as he rang the doorbell. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that,” he muttered under his breath.

“Sam, I—” Bucky started, but was cut short by the front door opening. The elegant woman on the other side was laughing at something behind her, but her smile dropped instantly when she saw Sam’s companion.

“Hey Sarah,” Sam said awkwardly. “Have you met my friend Bucky? Buck, this is my big sister.”

“How do you do, ma’am,” Bucky dipped his head, huddling down into his shoulders.

“Mmm.” She turned archly away. “Well, you’d better come in, I suppose. Ma! Sam’s here!” Leaving the door open behind her, she shouted into the bustle of the house.

“Sam’s here?” came the answer from somewhere inside. The man himself grinned at Bucky, who followed him hesitantly into the front hall. A warm, friendly-looking older woman bustled out of the crowd of people, beaming. “There’s my boy! Welcome home, honey!”

She wrapped Sam in a tight hug, which he eagerly returned. The minute she let him go, she turned on Bucky. “And I sure know who this handsome young man must be! Come on over here.” Bucky’s eyes bugged out as she wrapped him in a matching embrace; he fixed Sam with a  pleading stare over her shoulder, but Sam just laughed and shook his head. Finally, she released him, but only to coo over his outfit and his long hair.

By the time she ran out of steam, Bucky looked ready for the earth to swallow him whole, and Sam was fighting the giggles. “Mama, Bucky Barnes,” he managed. “Bucky, as I’m sure you already guessed, this is my mother, Darlene Wilson, who has _really_ been looking forward to meeting you.”

“I better not hear you laughing at your mother,” she chided him gently; Sam leaned down to kiss her cheek before being swept up in hellos from the crowd of relatives in the living room nearby.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Bucky mumbled.

“Oh, there’s no need to be so formal, any friend of Sam’s is a part of the family. Call me Darlene. Come on in and grab a plate.”

Taking Bucky by the arm, she lead him through to the kitchen. The next hour or so passed by in a whirlwind; he was stuffed full of a variety of superb home cooking, and introduced to cousin after cousin after cousin. From the fringes, Sam was watching him flounder and sniggering, seemingly unwilling to intervene on his behalf.

Finally, the flood of relatives waiting to meet him subsided. Bucky managed to worm his way over to the sideline of the room, stabbing at a slice of cake with his fork. Sam sidled up to him, still grinning.

“You havin’ fun?”

Bucky’s only answer was a dirty look. Sam laughed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Mom can be a little overwhelming, but you made a good impression. She’s gonna expect you at every family gathering from now on, you know.”

Watching from the corner of his eye, Sam saw what he expected—Bucky’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flared. “Unless, that is, you don’t plan on being here,” he continued.

“I don’t want to hear you try and talk me out of it, Sam,” Bucky muttered. “It’s for the best. Steve is—I’m killing him slowly. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. I can’t forgive myself if I destroy him the way I’ve destroyed so many other people.”

Sam bit his lip, fiddling with his near-empty drink glass. “Y’know…” he said slowly. “It’s funny you should mention forgiveness.”

He pointed to one of the partygoers, an older man chatting with Darlene on the other side of the room. “My uncle, Gideon. He’s had some problems with addiction. Even stole from my mother more than once—cash, pawned some of her jewelry. I thought she was nuts for forgiving him, again and again, but she never gave up on him. She got him help, got him in the program, and he’s been clean for more than a decade.” Next, he indicated a boy just past college age. “Jim spent two years in juvie, I won’t say for what, but now he’s got a promising engineering career.”

He pointed out each person as he went on: “Cousin Julia over there cheated on her wife. Jessie isn’t speaking to either of her siblings and one of their parents, over a grudge that’s nearly twenty years old. Frank flunked out of two different schools and failed in three careers before getting into music.”

“So let me guess—if I just give everything a second chance, I, too, can one day have a loving family and home, just like this one?” Bucky said sarcastically, glaring at him.

“I don’t see a white picket fence in your future, man,” Sam laughed, shaking his head. “But that isn’t a bad thing. The point I was trying to make was about forgiveness. You said you can’t forgive yourself; I think we both know you were talking about more than your problems with Steve.”

He paused, finishing off the last sip of his punch. “It can be really hard to forgive yourself for something, even for something that wasn’t your fault. But the people who love you, whether it’s family you’re born into or family you build for yourself, can make it a damn sight easier. They support you, they stand by you, and yes, they forgive you when you do wrong.”

“A juvie record and some bad grades isn’t on the same level as the things I’ve done,” Bucky said sullenly.

Sam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you. I’ve said what I wanted to say. If you can’t forgive yourself, you _could_ try to let Steve forgive you, and see if that helps. Bear in mind: friendship, family or lover, relationships take work. But it’s your choice to make. You make the choice to do the work to try and stay together.”

He clapped Bucky on the shoulder and turned away, heading for the kitchen; Bucky twisted the paper plate in his hands until it tore, then wove his way out of the room, looking for a quiet place to be alone with his thoughts.

A sitting room in the rear of the house, with a big picture window looking out on the snow-covered back yard, provided the answer. Bucky sank into the couch gratefully, mulling over what Sam had told him. He sat alone for—he wasn’t sure how long, as the noises of the party ebbed and flowed in the front part of the building.

“You’ve got a robot arm,” a tiny voice informed him, breaking his concentration. Bucky looked up to see a little girl of four or five years old, wearing a green velvet dress and standing on the other side of the room. She was staring at him solemnly with huge, dark eyes, bright red ribbons tied around the base of her hair puffs.

Bucky stared back at her. “Yes, I do,” he said finally.

She marched across the room, peering up into his face. “Why come?”

“Why…have I got a robot arm?” he asked uncertainly.

Nodding, she grabbed his metal hand, turning it this way and that, inspecting his fingers closely, lips pursed in concentration. “Where’d it come from? What happened to your real one?”

“It—I had an accident, and it got ruined.”

“Did it hurt when it fell off?”

“I don’t remember.”

She looked up suspiciously, not seeming to believe him, but didn’t press the point. Instead, she turned his hand up to look more closely at his palm. “Where’d you get the new one?”

“Some people made it for me.”

“What people?”

“Just—people.”

“ _What_ people?”

“Jody, don’t bother the nice man,” came a clear voice from the door. Bucky looked up, feeling guilty without really knowing why. Sam’s sister Sarah was standing there, an odd look on her face.

“I’m not bothering him, mommy, we’re just _talking_ ,” Jody protested, spreading his fingers apart and wiggling them. Bucky tugged his hand out of her grip, watching Sarah nervously from the corner of his eye as she approached.

“Better listen to your mother,” he muttered, pulling the sleeve of his sweater down to cover the steel.

Sarah put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, steering her towards the door and away from Bucky. “Your grandma wants to hear that song your class sang for the winter play at school. Get on now and go find her.”

Pouting, Jody obeyed, vanishing back into the noise of the party. Sarah crossed her arms over her chest, staring down at Bucky with a searching look. He stared at the floor, sheepish, until she finally spoke.

“I suppose Sam told you that I didn’t want him to bring you here.”

“He didn’t actually tell me, but I got the message, yeah.”

“I told him you’re dangerous and I didn’t want you near my children.”

Bucky huddled in on himself, not daring to look up.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” she asked after a moment. “Deny it? Defend yourself?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not wrong.”

“So you really are a killer?”

Startled, he looked up; her face was blank, emotionless. “No,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Hmm.” She strode over, sitting down next to him on the couch. “Well, my mother likes you. That’s not nothing. Of course, my mother likes nearly everyone.”

Hesitant, Bucky watched her underneath his eyelashes. She remained impassive, bobbing one foot up and down as she stared off into space.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked when the wait became unbearable.

Sarah threw her head back, laughing, a real, full-throated laugh. Bucky stared at her, taken completely aback.

“Oh, lord help me, what are we going to do with you,” she said when she caught her breath. “No, Bucky, I don’t want you to leave. Mama would tan my hide, for one thing. But more importantly, I’m a big enough person to admit when I was wrong about someone.” Stifling a groan, she stood, pushing herself up on Bucky’s shoulder, and headed for the door without looking back. Behind her, Bucky was left completely poleaxed, staring after her.

“Don’t brood in here for too long,” she called into the room from the hall, “there’s going to be party games in a little while, and I’ll never hear the end of it from Jody if you don’t join in.”

After his brain caught up with events, he picked his jaw up off the floor and followed her out to join the festivities.

The promised party games did indeed take place; Bucky was hilariously, unrepentantly terrible at Charades; _dominated_ Twenty Questions; but weaseled his way out of Musical Chairs, despite Jody’s best efforts. Things wound down, relatives trickled out, but Sam seemed to have no intention of leaving. He was deep in conversation with Sarah’s husband.

Finally, they were the last ones there. As he headed back into the kitchen to put away the leftover food, Sam waved goodbye to Sarah and her husband, who were busy herding their children into the front hall; Darlene claimed a hug and a kiss from each one.

For his part, Bucky lurked in the living room, wishing he was home. He’d tried to start cleaning up the mess the party’d left behind, only to be scolded into submission by the lady of the house. Sam’s mother seemed very fixed on the idea that guests were not allowed to help with chores.

A horde of framed photographs on the mantelpiece caught his eye. Snapshots of Sam and Sarah as children were mixed in with Sarah’s kids and a variety of young cousins; Bucky traced the family resemblance as he looked them over. Near the center was an older picture; examining it more closely, he was surprised to find it was a much younger Darlene, arm in arm with a handsome man, both of them younger than Sam was now.

“My husband,” came a voice behind him; Bucky jumped and turned. Darlene in her present form came up to stand side-by-side with him, picking the frame up to look at it more closely. “Sam’s father, Paul. He was a minister, and a wonderful man.”

“Was?” Bucky asked softly, after a pause.

Darlene sighed. “Cancer. Very sudden, very aggressive. By the time we even noticed the first symptoms, it was already too late.”

He twisted one hand in the other. “I’m—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

Shaking her head, Darlene put the photograph back up on the mantel. “Oh honey, these things just happen. I miss him something fierce, of course, but he’d want me to be happy, live life to the fullest. And besides, I had children and grandchildren to worry about.”

“How long ago—” Bucky asked awkwardly. “I mean, how old was Sam, when he—”

“Grown up and off in college,” she answered waving one hand in the air. “And Sarah was already married and had just found out she was pregnant with her first. That’s the one thing that really bothers me about it, you know, is that her babies never got to know their grandfather.”

Bucky nodded wordlessly; after wrestling with himself for a moment, he reached out one clumsy arm, putting it around her shoulders. She leaned into his side, reaching up and squeezing his hand absently, then laughed a little. “Oh, would you look at me. Silly old lady getting teary-eyed about the past.” She straightened up, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she smiled, then reached up to pat Bucky’s cheek fondly. “You’re a good boy, Bucky Barnes. I’m glad you came today.”

Before Bucky could think how to respond, she was already bustling back off to the kitchen, calling, “Where’s that son of mine got to? Sam, you’d better get on the road if you want to be home at a decent hour—you know Santa won’t come until you’re fast asleep!”

“Ma, I’m in my thirties,” he called back, laughing, but took the hint. He hugged and kissed her goodbye; she claimed a hug from Bucky as well, and they were back on the road, headlights glinting off falling snow as they followed the empty road back into the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's family is (very) loosely based on the Earth-616 version. Also, for the record, they're not nearly as dysfunctional as he made them sound in his conversation with Bucky. It's just that there's so many of them; he has a MASSIVE extended family, so there are a proportional number of people with Issues.


	4. The Ghosts of Christmas Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for clarity: this fic takes place in a canon-divergent AU where Age of Ultron never happened. Without the disaster in Sokovia, Zemo would never have gone after Karpov, so it's safe to assume he'd still be there.

Around two in the morning that same night, Bucky suddenly awoke from a dead sleep. He slipped carefully out of bed, making sure not to disturb Steve, and padded silently out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen, where he found Natasha waiting.

She was dressed for a mission, fully armed, her hair twisted up into a tight knot at the back of her head. Bucky stared at her for a long moment; she met his gaze evenly, eyebrows raised in expectation, before he turned and vanished back into the bedroom.

A few minutes later, when he reemerged, he was kitted up fully in his tactical gear, and the two of them slipped out the same way she’d entered—through the window, rappelling down the side of the building, and vanishing into the night like ghosts.

<So did Sam convince you?> she asked, once they’d made it a few blocks from his apartment.

Bucky shook his head. <He came close. I was on the edge by the time we left his mother’s. But then when I got home, Steve was already asleep in bed, and I remembered the fight we had yesterday, and the one before that, and the one before that, and the way they never seem to really end, and…he looks so peaceful, when he sleeps. It’s the only time he’s not trying to fistfight the world. I’m leaving _because_ I love him, I can’t let him pollute himself with me anymore. >

She shrugged her shoulders and said carelessly, <You say that almost like you believe your own bullshit. We both know you’re not doing this for Steve, you’re doing it to punish yourself. Well, he’ll suffer almost as much as you will, that’s for sure.>

Bucky glanced at her sidelong. <You said he’d understand,> he reminded her. <You said he’d understand why I had to go.>

<I lied.>

His face darkened and flushed; he stopped short, pulling her into the shadow of an alcove.

<You shouldn’t have lied to me about that, Natalia. Not about _him_. >

She broke his grip on her arm easily, shoving him back against the wall. <I don’t remember you being this weak,> she spat, contemptuous. <When did your little heart grow so soft and fragile? The Soldat I knew in Serbia would have eaten you alive. If you want to cry and whine and weep for your lost years like a child, then go back home and crawl into bed with your sweetheart. I have _work_ to do. I don’t have time for your self-pity. >

Without looking back, she swept back out of the alley, striding purposefully along the darkened street. Bucky caught up to her in a few paces; his face was still red with rage, but he kept in step.

“Where are we going?” he demanded in English when she turned down an alley.

“Cleveland,” she called over her shoulder as she kicked a wooden pallet away from the front of a pile of rubbish.

“Cleveland, _Ohio?_ ”

“Yup.” She pulled a tarp out of the way, revealing a pair of motorcycles. Bucky scowled and helped her clear the rest of the trash pile out of the way, following her out of the alley and into the darkened street.

When she lead the way out of town, he half-expected they’d be driving all the way there; fortunately, she headed off in a different direction, to a dirt two-track leading deep in the forest. It was thick with snow, but they both drove like experts, cutting and weaving through the drifts. Finally, the road led into a clearing where a craft was parked—not the full-size quinjet he and Clint had taken, but a smaller, two-seat stealth model.

Natasha took the pilot’s seat, in front; Bucky climbed in behind her, and they launched smoothly into the night. The flight took about forty-five minutes; it was just past three when they pulled in low into the city, skimming underneath the radar to land in an abandoned warehouse. The door was open, and she cut smoothly through, parking the jet on one side of the building, out of sight from the street.

A pair of bikes, not much different from those they’d taken from the city in D.C., awaited them on the other. Bucky followed Natasha’s lead once again; neither of them had spoken since she’d told him where they were going.

She didn’t look back as she weaved her way through what little traffic there was at such an hour. Finally, downtown gave way to a dreary suburb, overgrown lawns, broken streetlights, and ramshackle houses. Their bikes were electric-powered and nearly silent, but even the muffled squealing of the motor seemed to echo in the silent, empty street.

Natasha seemed to know exactly where she was going; she circled around the same block once or twice before pulling into a sidestreet. They parked side-by-side in the shadow of a garage and stretched, Natasha checking over her tools and weaponry one last time.

<So are you going to ask me what we’re doing here?> she said carelessly, re-lacing her boot.

Bucky shrugged. <I assumed you’d tell me whenever you felt like it.>

<Oh, don’t pout, it’s unattractive,> she laughed, and pulled a photograph from her pocket, handing it over. Bucky took one look at it and crushed it in his fist.

<Natalia, what is this,> he snarled, warning in his voice.

<A mission I wouldn’t trust to anyone else,> she said seriously. <He’s been living here in the states under a false name for more than a decade—came onto my radar in ’14 after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. I’ve been waiting for the right time to take him, and I think that time is now.>

<Vasily Karpov…> Bucky growled. He threw the crumpled picture on the ground. <Revenge won’t fix what’s broken in me.>

<Ah, but it’ll be _satisfying_ ,> she grinned. He rolled his eyes, but followed her. They stalked down the sidestreet, moving slow and smooth. The shades were drawn on all the windows of Karpov’s house; they entered his yard from the neighbors’, slinking around the corner to the back door. Bucky kept lookout while Natasha picked the lock and jimmied the deadbolt open, his sidearm out in his hand.

Karpov didn’t wake up as they crept into his bedroom, sprawled out and tangled in filthy sheets. Bucky’s jaw was clenched and he was breathing heavily through his nose, staring down at the man who had once been his jailer and tormenter.

Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room and down into the living room, opening and closing his fists, tears threatening in the corners of his eyes. Natasha came up beside him, placing her hand on the small of his back. He took a couple of deep, slow breaths, mouth working as he stared up at the ceiling.

Once he’d gotten himself under control, he looked down at her and nodded. Moving with purpose now, they turned together and went back to where Karpov was snoring. Natasha grabbed one of his wrists, flipping him onto his stomach and pinning his hands behind his back. Karpov was awake and struggling instantly, eyes wide with fear and panic.

His vision fixed on Bucky, looming over him like an avenging angel—he gasped and started to shout, “Желание, ржав—” A metal fist caught him right in the throat. Sputtering and choking, he struggled to breathe; together they pulled him from the bed and dragged him down the hallway to the kitchen.

Natasha bound him hand and foot to a wooden chair with zip ties and duct tape. Just as his bruised throat began to clear enough to speak again, she stuffed a filthy hand towel in his mouth, tying it in place.

“Well,” she asked Bucky matter-of-factly, “shall we torture him before we kill him?”

Karpov screamed around his gag, and she slapped him casually. Bucky looked away.

<He’s got no information I need and nothing to say that I want to hear,> he told her curtly.

<Then we’ll send him to hell where he belongs,> she said. <But first, the notebook.>

Bucky started, staring at her in horror. <The red ledger?> he whispered. <It’s here?>

Natasha nodded grimly. <He brought it with him from Siberia.> Karpov was watching them anxiously, eyes darting from face to face; Natasha bent down close to his face.

<I don’t suppose you’d like to make it easy on yourself and tell us where you’ve hid it,> she asked him sweetly. Karpov sneered. <No, I didn’t think so.>

Straightening up, she patted Bucky on the arm, and they split up, turning the house over room by room. Piles of trash and empty liquor bottles littered every room; the kitchen sink was filled with dirty dishes, and insects skittered over a thick layer of grime. Natasha turned her nose up as she dug through heaps of unwashed laundry in the bedroom, using her baton as a tool to avoid touching any of his filth.

It was Bucky who finally found it, hidden in a box behind a false wall in the basement. His hissing call summoned Natasha downstairs; he was staring at the stained and weather-beaten leather like a coiled serpent, plaster dust covering his left fist.

She reached out and picked it up, rifling through the pages. “Is it the real one?” he asked hoarsely. Natasha nodded, snapping it shut and holding it out to him. When he backed up half a step, she tucked it away in a pocket instead.

Heading for the stairs, she got halfway up before realizing Bucky hadn’t moved. She stopped and looked down at him, waiting.

“So you brought me here to find that—that thing?” he asked finally. She shook her head.

“I brought you here to show you your future.” Turning, she went up the rest of the stairs without looking back. Bucky set his jaw, and followed her. She was waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest.

“This is where people like us wind up,” she told him when he reached the top. “Spies, agents, assets…welcome to the end of the line.”

A sour twist of her mouth accompanied the last phrase; he looked away. She swept her arm grandly around the dingy room. “Behold your future, Bucky Barnes. Alone and desperate, living in squalor until your past catches up with you, and this is where you die—a silenced bullet in the dark of the night. How long do you think it’ll be before anyone finds his body? Before someone comes looking for him? How many months—how many _years_ , before anyone but you and I even knows he’s dead? Will anyone care?”

She pushed in close, invading his personal space. <James, look me in the eye and tell me you deserve this. _Look me in the eye_ , and tell me that _this_ is where you belong. Do you _truly_ believe, deep in your heart of hearts, that you deserve the same fate as this unrepentant pile of waste? >

She kicked Karpov’s foot roughly to accentuate her point. Bucky still wouldn’t meet her challenging stare, so she turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the darkness with their captive.

Some five minutes passed as she waited by the back door. Finally, her sensitive ears heard three shots fire. Bucky came out, unscrewing the silencer from the tip of his weapon and stowing both pieces, and they slipped away into the night.

Just as on the journey out, not a word was spoken between them on the way back. No new snow had fallen to impede their passage on the lonely dirt road leading back to the city; the motorcycles were left hidden in the same alley they’d found them, and Natasha stalked off in the opposite direction of Bucky’s apartment.

He reached his own window and slipped inside an hour before sunrise. He undressed in moments, stowing his tac gear in the usual place, and padding into the bedroom. Steve stirred, roused by the movement, as Bucky slipped in between the sheets.

Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he whispered, “Hey, Buck—where are you going?”

Bucky’s heart was beating wildly in his chest—every thud, every throb, a bittersweet plea and a promise. He tucked himself under Steve’s arm, gluing himself to his chest and burying his face into his neck.

“Nowhere.” He squeezed his eyes tight shut, lips brushing Steve’s bare skin as he spoke. “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nat's final speech in this chapter was super hard to write my dudes I still don't know if I pulled it off


	5. God Bless Us Every One

It was late afternoon when the knock finally came on Steve and Bucky’s front door.

“It’s open!” Steve shouted from the living room. He came down the hall into the entryway just in time to catch Natasha, Clint and Sam in the process of de-coating. “Shoes off inside please, don’t want you shmucks tracking mud and snow all over my nice clean floors!”

Turning away, he bustled down the hall towards the kitchen. Behind his back, Clint pulled a face at the others, widening his eyes comically. “He’s in a good mood today.”

“Almost as if his relationship problems mysteriously resolved themselves overnight,” Sam said pointedly, raising his eyebrows at Natasha, who ignored the hint as she toed out of her boots. “One of these days you’re gonna have to tell us what you said to him—I _know_ I didn’t change his mind.”

“In your dreams, boys,” she told them in a sing-song voice as they all followed Steve.

Bucky was fussing around at the counter with his back to them. Steve edged around the center island, nervously sidling up to him. He was hesitant, tentative, when he put his arm around him, but the tension ebbed away when Bucky smiled and leaned into the touch, kissing Steve’s cheek softly. Sam hid a smile.

“Smells good in here,” he called over.

“Bucky’s making rugelach,” Steve beamed. “His grandmother’s recipe!”

Sam nodded in approval, impressed. “Very nice. Can’t wait to try it. Happy Boxing Day, by the way. It would have been Merry Christmas, if you hadn’t stood us up yesterday.”

“Eat my ass, Wilson,” Bucky grunted, flipping him off over his shoulder. Steve’s scandalized ‘ _Bucky!_ ’ was cut off by the kitchen timer; he was shouldered gently out of the way of the oven door. The final tray of pastries was perfectly done; holding the pan with his metal hand, Bucky nudged them gently off onto the cooling rack.

Dinner was still in-progress, a big covered pot of chicken and dumplings simmering on the stove. Natasha grabbed a kitchen knife with disturbing eagerness, cheerfully decimating a pile of vegetables and head of lettuce down into something resembling a salad. Meanwhile, Clint started setting the table, passing out cups and a stack of plates.

The meal passed uneventfully; they made small talk, about the weather, about the remodeling Tony had planned for Stark Tower, about the ‘vacation’ Nat and Clint had taken to Europe over the summer. Tongue in cheek, Sam grilled Steve about missing his mother’s Christmas Eve party. He never did hear what excuse Clint had used to tie him up for the day, but to his credit, Steve didn’t try to pass the buck. Instead, he just stammered and babbled a bit, as oblivious to the wink Clint dropped behind his back as he was to the smug look on Natasha’s face. In the end, blushing, he swore to his and Bucky’s attendance at her Easter dinner.

“Mom’s gonna have to be satisfied with that, I suppose,” Sam teased, “but don’t be surprised if you’re no longer her favorite son. Your boy here made quite an impression.”

“Shouldn’t _you_ be her favorite son?” Natasha asked him sarcastically.

“You’d think so,” Sam sighed, “and yet here we are.”

After dinner, they sat in the living room, enjoying the rugelach and chatting. Clint easily drew Steve into an argument about gentrification, playing devil’s advocate just to wind him up, while the other three relaxed on the couch and watched the show.

“So I guess you’re sticking around after all,” Sam asked quietly when he was sure Steve wasn’t listening.

Bucky shifted in his seat. “Fuck off,” he suggested.

“Well excuse _me_.” Sam abandoned the couch to enter the fray as reinforcements for Clint.

Following a discreet pause, Natasha murmured, <So what did you do with it?>

Twisting one hand in the other, he stared at his lap as he answered. <It’s hidden. Not in the apartment, Steve might stumble over it, but somewhere safe.>

<I thought you might have destroyed it,> she said, leaning back in her seat.

<I considered that. It’s dangerous, letting something exist that has so much power over me. But I also thought there may be something in it that will help me break their control, if I ever work up the nerve to actually read through it.>

She shrugged, acknowledging the possibility, and they watched the argument progress; Sam had changed sides when Clint redirected the topic to illegal immigration. At length, she spoke again.

<Steve seems much more relaxed than he has been for many months—it was the first thing we noticed when we got here.>

Bucky nodded. <For such an idiot, he’s very perceptive.>

<For such a skilled agent, you’re not very subtle.>

He snorted, shooting her a dirty look.

<I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that it isn’t going to be easy,> she said. Bucky just shrugged. <The guilt, the shame—they won’t just disappear. It will take real work and a lot of it, to come to terms with the things you’ve done. I’m speaking from experience.>

<Because you’re such a model of emotional health and well-being,> Bucky muttered.

<Compared to you I’m Mister fuckin’ Rogers,> she threw back, and he laughed, loud enough to pull the other three out of their argument. <At least I’m in a stable relationship of almost ten years, even if it is with an idiot.>

<And _I’m_ in a mostly-stable relationship of almost _ninety_ years, even if it is with a star spangled dumbass who charges into every fight he can find without stopping to think. >

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Steve asked the others.

“How handsome I am,” Clint said loudly. Bucky rolled his eyes.

<How the hell do you put up with him?>

<He’s good in bed.>

Bucky started laughing again. Steve watched them nervously out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to listen as they kept talking.

<I do feel bad about not showing up to Sam’s dinner party yesterday, though.>

<Don’t, you deserved the day off. Don’t tell him I said this, but it was awful anyway. Literally everyone except the two of you showed up, and Stark spent the whole evening showing off and making a royal ass of himself.>

<He’s not actually angry, is he?> She rolled her eyes instead of answering. <That’s good. I just couldn’t bear to face the world right then. You know I woke Steve up getting back into bed—luckily he thought I was trying to sneak out, instead. We spent nearly the entire day just holding on to each other.>

<So you’ve gone a whole day without a fight? An accomplishment for you two, the way things have been recently.>

<My luck, now I’ll have to marry the fuckin’ asshole.>

<God, don’t remind me, Clint’s been up my ass about weddings for ages.> Switching to English, she called over, “Hey Sam, how about some hot chocolate?”

“It’s not my kitchen, make Steve get it,” he argued.

“Steve doesn’t make it like you do.”

“Nuh-uh, no way.” Sam shook his head. “I’m a pushover, all right, but there are limits. Make it yourself, Romanoff, and get me some while you’re at it.”

Steve was already standing up, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Okay, don’t pick a fight. Who else wants some? Everyone?” He headed for the kitchen, Bucky making no attempt whatsoever to disguise that he was staring at Steve’s ass.

<How’s he in bed, by the way?> Natasha asked casually. <He kisses like a virgin, I know that.>

“Are you talking about something dirty?” Clint interrupted. “It sounds like you’re talking about something dirty and if you are, I want to know what.”

“I don’t,” Sam said decisively. “I think I’ll go help Steve with that cocoa after all,” and he escaped to the kitchen as quickly as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER


End file.
